Christmas in 221B (Or How Sherlock Finally Got Out Of Denial)
by chocolatecheesecakes
Summary: When Sherlock is given an initial promise by Mycroft he, for once, is more than happy to celebrate Christmas. For once. But Christmas is a puzzling holiday, especially when there's a flatmate with a passion for Christmas jumpers and a Detective Inspector who likes to drink Christmas away in a tumbler of beer. And why does Molly have so many Santa Hats?
1. Mycroft's Promise

**I wanted to do another Sherlock story! Here we are!**

**This will be JohnLock (eventually) and Mystrade (half-established, spot my casual references), with Molly Hooper (of course) and the cast of Scotland Yard (this isn't our division).**

**AND IT'S CHRISTMASSY! YUP! Sherlock celebrates Christmas! All will be revealed in this chapter!**

**I am also planning a Harry Potter Christmas story too. So don't worry. **

**Enjoy this chapter, and please review!**

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><p>"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule." - Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of Four<p>

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><p><span>Mycroft's Promise (Or "How John Was Shocked By Sherlock's Christmas Spirit When He Came Back From Buying Milk")<span>

"John?" Sherlock called, not moving from his armchair in the front room of 221B, surrounded by papers, and an erroneous handbag just to his left. His left sleeve was pulled up to reveal, not just one, but three nicotine patches, and his tie was dangling loosely around his neck. Mrs Hudson had been around earlier that morning to dust, as his skull had been moved approximately three millimetres, and his laptop had been shut when he got back from _that meeting _with Lestrade.

When John didn't respond, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling. '_Hard of hearing – television on too loud?_'He added to his already overflowing 'John' room in his mind palace, pushing a few of his more… untameable feelings into the old writing desk at the very, very back.

"John?" He called again, a margin louder.

John didn't respond, but what Sherlock did get was Mrs Hudson in her pink fluffy slippers and matching dressing gown (too big by a fraction, it made a sound when it dragged against the carpet). "John's gone to get milk Sherlock." She reminded him, and Sherlock nodded.

"Good. I told him to get milk two days ago." He took out the '_hard of hearing_' comment and deleted it. Replaced was something for Mrs Hudson – she was trying a new perfume, violets and vanilla. Dior. Given to her by her niece two weeks ago. "We're out of teabags too."

"I'm not your housekeeper dearie." Mrs Hudson said, with a sigh, but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Housekeeper, landlady, same thing." He dismissed. "Oh, and next time you're dusting, please can you not move my skull?"

Mrs Hudson lingered a moment longer – long enough to tut at the mess (and presumably the skull) – but then she was padding down the stairs again, the door shutting with a click behind her.

Sherlock was more than happy to lie there in his armchair, sorting his mind palace and to further his ponderings on Lestrade's new cologne – it seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it – but then…

"Not John." Sherlock muttered, as he picked up the phone, taking one quick glance at the caller ID, before tossing it to one side as he saw the number, memorised. He couldn't deal with Mummy today.

However, he did pick up the next call, less than two minutes later, even though he didn't want to. Mycroft was dreadfully persistent.

"Did you notice Lestrade's new cologne?" He asked, as soon as he had pressed 'accept call'."

"Unlike you, Sherlock, I don't care for Greg Lestrade's new cologne." Mycroft said, in an exasperated tone that really grated against Sherlock's patience.

"His name's Graeme." Sherlock corrected automatically. "It's Graeme Lestrade."

"I assure you, his name is Gregory Lestrade, Greg for short." Mystrade replied, and Sherlock sat up abruptly. "Now, that wasn't what I am calling about."

"You have, as far as I know, only met Lestrade twice, once today and two weeks ago when you interrogated him." Sherlock began.

"I didn't interrogate him-"

Sherlock ignored that. Irrelevant to the conversation. Mycroft could be so stupid sometimes. "Yes, but why would you bother to learn his name so quickly? It took you two months and six days to learn John's correctly."

"Two months and eight days, get your facts right Sherlock." Mycroft corrected. "And John Watson was irrelevant then."

Sherlock shook his head. He stood up, picking up the handbag and then tossing that to one side, scattering the contents across the room. "John was never irrelevant, you just couldn't accept that I had a friend."

"Sherlock, are we ever going to address the point of this conversation or will we talk in circles for the next five hours?" Mycroft sighed. "The point is – Christmas is coming, and of course-"

"Mummy will expect us home." Sherlock filled in for his older brother, sitting back down again when a quick glance at the kitchen accounted for Mrs Hudson's statement. "And I won't be going, like normal."

Sherlock could hear his brother rolling his eyes. "At least _try _and be festive." Mycroft said, a little hypocritically. "Maybe remember to get the Christmas tree out? Possibly?"

"Christmas is boring." Sherlock replied, in a monotone. "And you won't be celebrating this year Mycroft, will you?"

There were ten seconds of silence. The Mycroft began to speak again. "If you come to Mummy's for Christmas then I promise I will leave you alone for six months."

"Done." Sherlock said, before pressing the 'hang up' button and throwing the phone away as well.

It was another ten minutes and thirty-two seconds before John came home. Sherlock was up before he could reach the kitchen, pulling him back down the stairs to the front door, grabbing his coat and scarf as he did.

"Sherlock?" John sounded surprised, wearing his blue coat today, Sherlock noted. He was feeling a little festive, which would be good for Sherlock's new plan to eleven minutes and forty-six seconds ago. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock thought that it was quite obvious what he was doing. But still, he humoured his flatmate by slowing down, looking at John placidly and saying: "Christmas shopping, what else? It's minus two point six degrees, snow is forecast, and you've brought milk."

John couldn't see the logic in this, _at all_, but when he saw his best friend stride out the front door with an uncharacteristic cheesy grin, his eyes widened and he hurried after Sherlock.

"…Christmas shopping?"


	2. The Christmas Jumpers

**Hey again! Thank you for my review: The souless ones, well, anything with Sherlock is a chore! And my followers! Lorna2304 and YJFangirl!**

**And here's another chapter. Please review XD**

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><p>"Wait. Before you do anything you might later regret, one question, let me ask one question. Are you really going to keep that?" - Sherlock Holmes, The Empty Hearse<p>

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><p><span>The Christmas Jumpers (Or "Sherlock Goes Loopy and Molly Feeds Her Cats")<span>

Molly Hooper had just finished feeding her cats – Charlie and Lola – when her phone rang.

She dried her hands on the dishcloth by the sink, patted Lola on the head as she walked by, and then walked into the living room, picking the phone up and holding it to her ear.

"Hello?" She asked, brushing a little cat hair off the sofa before taking a seat. The last thing she wanted was to walk into work on Monday with cat hair all over her jeans.

"Molly, was Sherlock acting a little odd when he came to the morgue yesterday?" John asked quickly. Molly's first intonation was one of surprise – as she wasn't used to John calling her at all, but then she shook herself (what would _Sherlock _think?) and replied as calmly as she could.

"Well…" She trailed off, thinking back to the day before. "He was wearing his coat indoors, again, and he made me make the coffee, again… No, not really John. Why do you ask? Has he done anything strange?"

As Molly was feeding cats and drinking tea, John was standing in the middle of Regent Street, watching Sherlock beadily as he shopped in New Look. So far, his flatmate had picked up a total of six Christmas jumpers, holding each one up _to himself _in the mirror every time. "No, nothing." John said quickly, forcing himself to look away from where Sherlock was now chatting – _chatting _– to a shop assistant. "Nothing at all, forget I bothered you Molly."

He bid her farewell, and absent-mindedly a 'Merry Christmas' (a month John, a full month to go), before slipping the phone into his pocket and looking both ways before crossing the street.

"Isn't it lovely John?" Sherlock asked, as he walked out of New Look with a bulging bag and to where John was waiting. "The atmosphere, the decorations, look! The nice girl in the shop recommended that I buy this!"

Sherlock picked a jumper out of the bag and held it up to himself, just long enough for John to read the words on it. His eyes bulged out of his head, and he felt himself colouring as Sherlock put it back in the plastic bag again. "Um… Sherlock?" He asked unsurely, looking anywhere but at his friend.

"You're blushing John, and it's minus two point eight degrees. Either you're suffering from a minor blood deficiency which is causing your blood to rise to the surface or you're too warm." Sherlock said briskly. Then he looked his friend up and down, then strode forward and began to try and yank John's jumper off.

"Wha- OW! Stop that, that hurts- SHERLOCK!" John yelled, trying to push Sherlock away from him with as much strength as he possessed. It might have worked, had there not been a few inches of thick woollen fabric pulled over his eyes, and he had to attempt to see through his hands and the sense of touch. He felt Sherlock's nose, his lips, his chin and his neck before he managed to find Sherlock's shoulders and push, as hard as he could.

"Bloody hell!" He yelled again, pulling his jumper back on again. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that for?"

"You were too hot, I was attempting to help you by removing your jumper." Sherlock explained, as if he was talking to a five year-old.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a few deep breaths. _There was no point in going into custody over a jumper_, he told himself sternly, before he forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye again.

"Sherlock, I was not too hot, I was embarrassed." Now John felt like he was talking to a five year-old. And he could feel his face heating again. Great. "That jumper, well… It's a little…"

"John, it is a jumper, in fact it is a Christmas jumper, and something you are habitually obsessed with." Sherlock stated, his brow furrowing. "What is wrong with it?"

John took another deep breath, before letting it out in a puff of warm air. "It says 'I'm On The Naughty List'." He said simply, willing his face to go back to its normal colour.

"So?" Sherlock looked more affronted than anything now. "Children send Christmas lists to an imaginary man in a white beard and a red coat and hat every year, and as you continually refer to me as a child I thought I should buy it."

"Um…" John face palmed, and then shook his head. "No, no, I refuse to have this conversation with you Sherlock. Call your Mother-" Sherlock pulled a face. "Or Molly-" Sherlock shook his head quickly. "Or Mycroft-"

"Certainly not Mycroft!" Sherlock said, his eyes wide. "It's his fault, you know John! Now, come on! Back to the flat! Taxi?"

A black London cab pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock climbed in. John dithered a little, and then climbed in too. Maybe he could hope that it was just Christmas spirit that was making Sherlock so… Loopy?

But living with the World's only consulting detective meant that nothing could ever be simple. So John sent a quick text, to all of his contacts (Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft).

_Sherlock's gone mad. Meet at the flat. – JW_


	3. Mulled Wine, Not Tea

**WOW! I woke up this morning to find about… 10 followers? And as many favourites too. THANK GOD! I was really worried I couldn't write Sherlock for a while. So, this is all dedicated to all of you.**

**Especial thanks to The souless ones, lovebites240196, kiras70, beccabrr and Lorna2304! **

**First day of advent tomorrow. Or, Chocolate Day, as I call it XD. Listening to Christmas music as well. I really missed Wombling Merry Christmas… I'm such a nerd.**

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><p>"There's always something." - Sherlock Holmes, <em>A Study In Pink<em>

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><p><span>Mulled Wine, Not Tea (Or "The Group Reconvene And Discover Mycroft's Blackmailing Plan")<span>

_Sherlock's gone mad. Meet at the flat. – JW_

Greg Lestrade raised his eyebrow, before swearing under his breath and pulling on his coat, throwing his ID card at the scanner.

"Where are you off to?" Sally called, just as Greg was about to walk out of the front door.

"Sherlock's apparently gone mad." Greg said, a little reluctantly. "Look… Just… Cover me for a couple of hours, okay Sally? Just for my peace of mind."

Sally muttered under her breath, but nodded reluctantly. "Are you seeing anyone?" She asked bluntly.

_Damn. Fuck it. Blazes. Bloody hell._

"No...?" Greg said slowly, turning to face his colleague for the first time. "Look Sally, Amanda might have left me…"

"A year ago."

"A year." _How come Sally bloody Donavon knew more about his love life than he did? _"But I'm all wrapped up with work, and it's Christmas in about a month. Just… Cover for me."

Then he was out of the door, and into his car. "Fuck." He said closing his eyes. "Sherlock, stupid stupid stupid. Okay…"

The key turned in the ignition, and he was speeding off towards Baker Street before he could really comprehend what exactly he was doing.

What John Watson was doing, however, was a whole other story.

"Mycroft, exactly, why?" He asked, staring at his flatmate's older brother with an unreadable expression. "And Sherlock, you're telling me that all this… All this _bloody Christmas cheer is_ _just so your brother will leave you alone for half the year?"_

"Naturally." Sherlock replied, in a monotone. "Christmas is boring. And the only reason I have celebrated it thus far is to make sure that my brother leaves me alone."

John pinched the bridge of his nose (he seemed to be doing that an awful lot nowadays) and looked down at Sherlock, who was now doing his infuriating 'I know better than you do face' at him. "Okay." He said, taking a huge, deep, calming breath. "So, you've not gone insane, you just wanted to be left alone by your brother."

"Harry leaves you alone, doesn't she? What a millpond _that _must be." Sherlock said simply, as Mycroft tapped impatiently on the wooden floor of the room with his umbrella.

"What's the matter?" Lestrade came rushing in, closely followed by Molly Hooper. Sherlock noticed that Mycroft's pupils dilated slightly, and he bit back a smile. Lonely no more, it transpired. Goldfish were inherently friendly, after all, and with a memory span of three seconds anyone could forget how… Distasteful Mycroft was.

"Nothing." John said, with an air of getting the worst of it over with. "Mycroft here decided that blackmailing Sherlock into celebrating Christmas was the best way to get him to visit their mother's house."

Molly blinked, and Sherlock nodded as she wiped her mouth. She _had _been wearing lipstick. It didn't suit her. Did it suit _anyone? _Now that was something to look into. Mrs Hudson wore it daily; maybe a character-profiling test would be in order.

"So I came here for nothing." Lestrade sighed. "Nothing at all. Just another botched rescue attempt or… I don't know, I don't really give a bloody shit!"

"We could talk over our Christmas plans?" Molly suggested quietly.

Lestrade immediately walked into the kitchen. "Beer's top shelf, second cupboard along!" Sherlock called, knowing the DI's drinking habit's first hand. He'd need a few to get through a talk about Christmas. He might need a few himself… But then he could get caught off guard, let slip important information.

Best to stick to the standby of the Mind Palace.

"Thank you, Molly." John sighed, giving the woman a grateful smile for her 'good work' (if Sherlock could describe it as thus). "Harry wants to meet you Sherlock-"

"No." Sherlock said quickly.

"…Why?" John said slowly, giving his roommate a strange look. "You've never met my sister."

"She's recently converted to becoming a Buddhist, has just left her latest girlfriend, and become an alcoholic again." Sherlock looked at John sharply, and tried to resemble a smile, which was appropriate (he thought) in this subtext. "From those simple deductions, I don't think I'd like her."

John had nothing to say to that, so Sherlock looked back at the rest of the group. Mrs Hudson was making tea downstairs; Lestrade was still thumping his head against the wall, Molly trying to stop him. Maybe he got his earlier point wrong. Lestrade and Molly… Not Mycroft and Molly. He really needed to read more body language. He was getting rusty.

"Mulled Wine, anyway?" Mrs Hudson walked in, holding a bottle of the stuff. Sherlock groaned. He'd got it wrong, _again._

There was always something.


	4. A Little Drunken Action

**Thanks to TheJesusFreak777 (I still need to reply to you… My organising skills are pitiful) and The souless ones. **

**I have never got drunk. In fact, the only alcohol I have ever consumed is champagne at Christmas, for the last few years. Blame Fanfiction for my knowledge of how drunk people function.**

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><p>"It's a three-pipe problem." - Sherlock Holmes <em>The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes <em>[He says this so much I've had to put the name of the compilation I have on my Kindle.]

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><p><span>A Little Drunken Activity (Or "Mrs Hudson Falls Down The Stairs And Lestrade's Brain Gets Broken")<span>

Mulled Wine, it transpired (whether both should be capitalised or no), was a lot more alcoholic than anyone had realised.

Mrs Hudson kept dissolving into giggles, and Molly was a little… A little looser than she normally was. Lestrade had stuck to his beer, and being a bipolar alcoholic (on when his ex-wife refused to have contact with him/at Christmas), he was a lot less affected than anyone else. But it was John who had suffered the most significant change.

Sherlock knew John Hamish Watson as a quiet, sometimes relaxed introvert. Mixed with alcohol, it made a monster.

"And you sheeee…" John slurred, his hand gesturing feebly to what might have been the laptop, the still abandoned handbag, the skull, the mantelpiece, or in fact the wall in it's entirety. The last was a little likely, knowing John's infuriating ability to miss tiny details. "Then Shheeerrrloockk…"

This wasn't remotely funny, and Sherlock pulled a face as everyone that was drunk began to giggle/becoming fully hysterical in the guise of Lestrade. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and for once shared a brotherly glare of desperate annoyance at the drunken group.

"CHRISTMAS MUSIC!" Mrs Hudson bellowed suddenly, before letting out a loud burp and giggling. "Come on Sherlock dearie, we need to play some Christmas music…"

She stood up, and made to go down the stairs. However. Her drunkenness must have affected her balance and sense of direction, as Sherlock heard a shriek, then a pull of fabric, and then several ominous thumps.

Everyone was shocked into silence. John tried to stand up, but as Sherlock had noted earlier, he was drunk. So he just flopped back down again. Lestrade was half-asleep, but Mycroft looked to be already on the phone, calling 999.

"Well." Sherlock said, after a few shocked moments of silence. "I always thought that alcohol had a less-than-pleasant affect on us. Now there is some more evidence to back that up. THE AMBULANCE IS COMING MRS HUDSON!" He yelled.

"…Good." A quiet voice came, from the foot of the stairs. "I think I've busted my hip again."

If Lestrade had to give his (rather drunken) opinion, then the day was splendid. Especially as he found himself giving Mycroft many unashamed winks once everyone else was attending to Mrs Hudson or drunkenly chatting to the hospital staff.

And it was satisfying to see the normally cool and collected Mycroft blush, if only for a second. Lestrade's mind had been tinted by being around Sherlock so much, and, naturally, carrying on a 'relationship' with said detective's older brother.

He laughed loudly, ignoring the disapproving glares of the nurses and doctors. Sherlock was so very gay too; he looked at John like Lestrade wished Mycroft would look at him like when they were 'in company' (that was how Mycroft put it).

Christmas cheer…

Lestrade raised an imaginary glass to Sherlock, who was now applying another nicotine patch to his arm. Mulled Wine was good, strong stuff. Not strong enough for an old drunkard like him, but strong nevertheless.

He'd have to get Sherlock to try a little. The Consulting Detective confronted with Morrison's Extra-Strong Mulled Wine…

His mind was going in circles. Lestrade laughed loudly again, and shook his head as Mycroft glared at him.

Old git.

Git being the loose term, as Sherlock would say. Or Mycroft himself.

Oh, Christmas would be fun this year…


End file.
